


Heavy goes the heart with love

by Stargirltakingflight



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Pain, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sad with a Happy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark is Good With Kids, Whump, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:28:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25144693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stargirltakingflight/pseuds/Stargirltakingflight
Summary: His hands feel clammy, slick with sweat and his whole body tense like a live wire. He stares down, where the cars zoom by at high speeds and the glittering lights of advertisements and stores promise illusive happiness on this bleak New York evening.---Or, Peter experiences grief. He doesn't quite know how to handle it on his own.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 57





	Heavy goes the heart with love

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for one of my best friends, who loves this sort of hurt/comfort. I hope I did the genre justice!
> 
> If you like it, why not leave me a comment? I love hearing from you and it helps me stay motivated!
> 
> \---  
> I support Trans Rights and BLM. If you can, donate and spread awareness.  
> \---  
> Also:  
> If you aren't comfortable reading about suicidal thoughts, please don't read this or have someone read it through for you before you do. It may just be one line but your mental health is vastly more important than any story could ever be. Stay safe and take care of yourself. I promise, things will get better.

His hands feel clammy, slick with sweat and his whole body tense like a live wire. He stares down, where the cars zoom by at high speeds and the glittering lights of advertisements and stores promise illusive happiness on this bleak New York evening. The sky hangs low in between the rising skyscrapers, punching through the dark grey nest into a part of the world where the sun still shines. Peter can't imagine ever feeling the sun or happiness again. He sobs, once, grasping for a breath, a helping hand, someone, anyone. The deep loneliness sends a pang through his heart and he shakes with tears. He is all alone. 

It starts raining, as if things aren't bad enough already, and he stays there, perched upon the rooftop corner like a gargoyle, slowly cracking under mother nature. The rain soaks him. At first he can still ignore it, content to hear the splattering of rain on concrete, but then the cold wetness spreads deeper, below his suit and into his bones until he feels like he'll never be warm again.

He sobs again, broken breaths turning into anguish and desperation as he looks up against the cold, dark sky.

He misses her so much.

It had been near instant, they'd said. One moment there, the next - gone. No pain, as if that was true, rather than just a lie to comfort clueless civilians. He knows she'd have had to suffer, lying in that car, slowly bleeding out while people tried to get to her - he can't imagine how horrible it must have been, how painful. He's been in pain, knows pain, intimately. It's his duty, after all - to protect. And sometimes, that means enduring pain. But this? Seeing her body brought before him to confirm what he'd known in his heart from the moment the police had called, seeing her broken, lifeless form had felt like a punch in the face, more painful than all the injuries he'd sustained in fighting. And yet, he still can't imagine how she must have felt, all alone, trapped in a metal carcass with no way out and slowly bleeding to death, feeling it creep closer and then, not feeling anything at all. It must have been a relief, he thinks. But the minutes leading up to it? Those must have been torture. 

The rain is still prattling against the concrete roof and his body is still shaking, jittery with exhaustion, grief, coldness and all the things he refuses to name, to think about right now. Where will he go? What will he tell everyone? 

He swipes at his face, taking off the mask and coming away with nothing but rainwater. There are no real tears to cry left in him. They're empty, just like he is.

He remembers the last words he said to her, something entirely meaningless, "Can you get me some of that good tofu they have there?" And her reply, entirely carefree and he wishes he could reach back in time and grab her arm. 

"Sure hon, mind getting started on the greens in the meantime?"

A noncommittal hum and keys clinking at the door. 

It's nothing dramatic, certainly not like in the movies, where the last conversation is a dramatic love declaration or worse, some horrible argument - but maybe that's exactly why it hurts so much. It was mundane, entirely normal, like a thousand days before. He didn't expect it to be his last conversation with Aunt May and in a way, he still can't quite grasp that it really was. In his mind's eye, she's still alive, waiting for him in their cozy flat, smiling, like she only ever did for him, eyes saying "I love you" and "You mean the world to me" and it hits him again like a punch to his gut, that she's just. Gone. 

And Peter, on the verge of falling, teetering over that edge both metaphorical and physical, starts to break.

He cries out for May, his mother since his own parents died and the only living relative he had left. He is well and truly alone now, and it shatters him into pieces.

He sways, forward, backward, feet and hands still planted firmly on the roof but for how long? As his hands start to lose their grip, body wracked with exhaustion and grief, entirely incapable of ensuring his survival, he hears an all too familiar sound, a whirring, a heavy thunk to his back, the clattering of mechanical pieces and then soft footsteps, walking forward. 

He shivers, eyes aflutter, and turns his head. Standing before him is Mr. Stark, not put together at all. Pants and shirt haphazardly chosen, a shortness of breath he isn't used to seeing on him. And a terrible kindness in his eyes, that manages to take his already shattered heart and break it even further, because this means it's truly real in a way he hasn't yet managed to face. 

Aunt May is dead and there is nothing he can do.

He whimpers, lip quivering and stretches out one hand. 

"M-mr. Stark. I- she's. She's gone," his voice starts to break, and Mr. Stark reaches forward, catches him in his arms, pulling him away from that edge, entirely uncaring of the rain that soaks them both and cradles his head. 

"Shh, Peter. Shhh."

He hugs him, strong and full of life. A stark contrast to the dead body he saw an hour ago. He sobs, and this time, tears flow from his eyes as he mourns the loss of his mother. Mr. Stark holds him, carding his hands through Peter's hair and keeping him upright by force alone, as every bone in Peter's body has seemingly turned to jelly. 

Slowly, he coaxes him upward, into a standing position, never taking his hands off him, there to steady him as they move toward the suit behind them. Mr. Stark doesn't let go of them until they reach the tower, depositing him on the sofa for a short, contact free moment, just until he is free of the armour, coaxing Peter to burrow into a blanket the moment he is back at his side.

They sit there, quiet, save for the rain against the windows, while Peter draws short, quivering breaths and dries his hair and Mr. Stark sits next to him, drawing circles on his shoulder, breathing slowly, loudly, a calming presence at his side.

They don't talk. Not until later, when Mr. Stark guides him to a room he's never before seen during his stays at the tower but quickly realizes must be meant for him. There is a view of the city, a desk with a little spiderman figurine, one of those commercially available ones, and next to it a picture of Peter, May and Mr. Stark. He almost breaks down crying again as he sees it.

"This," Mr. Stark starts ruefully, " isn't quite how I imagined showing this room to you, but Peter, I want you to know that you are not alone. You will always have a room and a space right here," he gestures, once around the room and then, tapping at his chest, right where his heart is, "no matter what may happen in the future."

His hand around Peter's shoulder is soft, gentle, kind. And before Peter falls into the bed, undoubtedly soft and cozy, he brings his arms around Mr. Stark and presses his head against the spot he'd indicated, just then. Ba-dump, ba-dump, goes his heartbeat, and Peter feels himself relax a little. He still carries within him the sharp sting of May's demise, soul battered and in pieces, but it's muted, for now, more bearable than before. He stays like that for a moment, content to hear this sound, and feel Mr. Stark's hands wrapped around him, proof that he is not alone.

As he lies down, huddled beneath blankets and bundled up in warmth, he sees Mr. Stark, standing in the doorway, a gentle look full of understanding and love in his eyes. Before he knows it, his eyelids drop and he is fast asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> If you want someone to talk marvel with or just ramble about headcanons, why not head on over to my tumblr @[stargirltakingflight](https://stargirltakingflight.tumblr.com/) and shoot me a message? I promise that I’d love to hear from you.
> 
> Kudos and comments are much appreciated!


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